


Felt Like This, Touching

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sexually Confident Draco Malfoy, Snogging, Virgin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: It's an obsession now, these Friday night forays into the Muggle world. It takes Draco a while to realise that Potter doesn't mean anything with his casual flirtations. The man is having fun with his friends, and if that fun means he becomes more and more physically affectionate with the men, rather than the women, it doesn't seem to dawn on Potter that it's anything out of the ordinary. But Draco notes that Weasley doesn't do the same, nor Longbottom, nor any of the other apparently straight Gryffindors in the group. Only Potter seems to find the opportunity to put his mouth on men's bodies, like it means nothing.Tonight, Draco's sole goal is to be one of those bodies, one of those men. To know, if only for a brief moment, what it feels like to have Potter's touch as something other than pain.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 52
Kudos: 653





	Felt Like This, Touching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



The bar is dark and smokey. Laser lights flash through the haze, tracing bright lines across sweat-damped skin and writhing bodies. The music is some heavily modified pop tune, one Draco doesn't recognise but acknowledges as catchy, and the bass thumps through his chest like a second heartbeat. His drink is sweating in his hand. Droplets of water cling to his fingers, cold and delicately perched against the ridges of his skin. As he drags his touch across the glass, the moisture gathers, pools, drips to the table.

His eyes dart across the crowd. It's hard to make out faces in the flashing gloom, but Draco knows the shape of the body he's looking for almost better than his own. After all, he's spent a good portion of his life trailing after that lithe form, tracking the smooth motion of long legs and strong arms, the ripple of muscle beneath robes, the sharp thrill of black hair and green eyes.

Draco also knows that Potter is here tonight. He and his Gryffindor friends stumble into this Muggle bar every Friday night after their regular meetup at the Leaky. Draco had come across them the first time by sheer coincidence, he and Pansy leaving Diagon Alley at the same time as the disorderly crowd. Pansy rolled her eyes, but Draco's lingered on the way that Potter's body was pressed a little too close to Finnegan's, Potter's well-muscled arm hanging across Finnegan's shoulder while his fingers played with the collar of Finnegan's shirt.

"Draco," Pansy warned when she saw where he was looking. "You don't need to go down that road again."

But he hadn't listened, surprisingly absolutely no one, and instead followed the group out into Muggle London and through the doorway of this crowded, overly-loud, too warm bar. He sat along the edges that night, much like this one, and observed Potter getting progressively more drunk as the evening wore on. Potter's hands, usually so still and steady, had grown restless. They traveled across backs and shoulders, chests and upper arms. Draco watched them dip beneath hems and collars, encircle wrists and tangle with other fingers.

All men's.

That first night, when Potter kissed Finnegan, laughing and drunk, it sent a lance through Draco's midsection, a mix of jealousy and wicked desire. But then Finnegan pushed Potter away, also laughing, and they went back to dancing as if nothing monumental had happened, as if Harry Potter kissed men in crowded bars all the time.

It's an obsession now, these Friday night forays into the Muggle world. It takes Draco a while to realise that Potter doesn't mean anything with his casual flirtations. The man is having fun with his friends, and if that fun means he becomes more and more physically affectionate with the men, rather than the women, it doesn't seem to dawn on Potter that it's anything out of the ordinary. But Draco notes that Weasley doesn't do the same, nor Longbottom, nor any of the other apparently straight Gryffindors in the group. Only Potter seems to find the opportunity to put his mouth on men's bodies, like it means nothing.

Tonight, Draco's sole goal is to be one of those bodies, one of those men. To know, if only for a brief moment, what it feels like to have Potter's touch as something other than pain.

At the edge of the dance floor, Draco finally catches sight of Potter. His eyes are closed, his glasses fogged, and he's dancing (poorly) with some wildly underprepared Muggle man. He keeps trying to step away from Potter's slightly off-beat flailing, but keeps getting pulled back in when Potter opens his bright green eyes and smiles at him. Draco understands the pull, can feel it himself even when it's not directed at him. That same sense of ownership from before washes over him, and Draco drags his wet fingers from his glass, stands, and moves across the dancefloor, finally giving into Potter's gravity.

Bodies press against his as he draws closer. He shoulders his way through the crowd, brushing aside the casual touches that glance over his waist and arms. The Muggle man sees Draco approaching before Potter does, and something about Draco's expression must finally make the Muggle decide to give up on Potter. He smiles with a heavy dose of apology, gestures vaguely at the bar, and disappears into the crowd, leaving a slightly befuddled Potter behind. A moment later, his confused eyes scanning the crowd, Potter sees Draco and freezes.

It's as if the music stops when their eyes meet. Draco can still feel the bass in his chest, that insistent pulse nearly in time with his heartbeat, but there's no sound. All he can see is Potter's wide, green eyes, his lips parted on an exhale, his hair sweat-damp and hanging across his forehead. He doesn't move as Draco finally breaks through the crush of the bar. Instead, Potter stands, hands loose and easy at his sides, and waits.

Draco steps close, too close, to Potter's body. Draco knows he's being presumptuous, but he's desperate to presume. Potter's eyes dart to Draco's mouth, then back to his eyes.

"Malfoy?" Potter bites his lip, glances lower, cheeks flushed. "What're you doing here?"

"Am I not allowed?"

"No." Potter swallows, and Draco traces the motion with his eyes, makes sure that Potter knows Draco's watching. "It's a Muggle bar."

"Your powers of observation continue to astound me." Draco takes another step forward, forcing Potter to bump into the tall table behind him. His hands fumble for its edge, and his legs fall open. Draco slides into the space there, rests his hands on the table's edge next to Potter's, their fingers nearly touching.

"What're you doing?" Potter asks again, but it comes out choked and heated.

"I've been watching you," Draco says just loud enough to be heard. He stares at Potter's mouth, obvious and uncaring. "And I have to say, I wouldn't have expected to see you snogging so many men. Very surprising, Potter."

"Piss off, Malfoy." Potter lifts a hand and presses it against Draco's chest, trying to shove him away. But Draco leans into the touch instead, using the position of his body and Potter's obviously inebriated state to push him off balance. Potter falls back against the table again, but his hand stays pressed against Draco's chest, Potter's spread fingers like pinpoints of fire through the thin material of Draco's shirt.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing." Draco drags his hand closer to the one Potter still has wrapped around the edge of the table until his index finger brushes against Potter's pinky. He can see the shiver travel up Potter's arm, can feel it in the palm pressed against his chest and the beating heart beneath it. "It's my preference."

"What is?"

"To snog men, Potter. Do try to keep up."

Draco drags his finger over the top of Potter's pinky, glories in the taut ridge of his tendon and the hard knots of his knuckle. He settles the point of his finger between Potter's pinky and ring finger, then presses down, forcing them apart so Draco can slot his finger in between them. He bends it slowly, drawing the pad of his finger against the delicate skin on the inside of Potter's fingers.

"What…" Potter glances at their hands, and his palm against Draco's shirt softens, catches on the fabric. "What're you doing?"

"I thought"—Draco steps closer again, and now their legs are touching, and if he were to shift another centimetre forward, their hips would be, too—"you might want to know what it's like to properly snog one."

"Snog what?"

"A man." He moves his finger again. "Me."

"I…" Potter's hand in Draco's shirt clenches. The starched fabric, already limp from the humidity of the bar and the sweat of Draco's body, gives easily beneath Potter's fingers. "Why would I do that?"

Draco leans in close, lets the promise of Potter's hand fisted in his shirt front draw him in without asking. "Because I offered."

"I didn't ask."

"Tell me to stop, then." Draco brings his mouth closer to Potter's, close enough to feel his shaky exhale against the sensitive skin of Draco's lips. "If you don't want it."

Potter swallows, but— finally—he doesn't say anything.

"Good." Draco leans forward, lets his lips brush lightly against Potter's. He shifts his hand so it's fully covering Potter's, pinning him in place. His other hand slides to the slight dip of Potter's waist. It rests there, fingertips barely curled around his back. Draco could pull Potter into his body, but he doesn't. The hint of it is enough, for now. A tantalizing middle-ground, both a yes and a no.

Draco's learned patience since graduating from Hogwarts. He's had to wait for many things in his life, to get what he wants and needs. So even though he's poised on the edge of kissing Potter, even though he could take the initiative and press the point, take the decision from Potter and take his mouth, Draco waits.

Potter breathes against Draco's lips, the bar lights flashing, smoke curling, music pounding through him like a rabbiting pulse. For a second, fear races through him that this isn't going to happen, even though he's so close. But then Potter closes the infinitesimal distance between them, and they're kissing.

It's better than he thought it would be, and he thought it would be amazing. But where Draco had always imagined Potter's mouth hard and biting beneath his, instead, Potter's lips are soft and giving, parted just enough for Draco to slide his tongue inside for a quick, darting taste. The hand tangled in the front of Draco's shirt softens, then slides to the base of Draco's neck. Potter's thumb rests in the hollow of Draco's throat, then slides behind and pulls him closer.

Fingers tangle in Draco's hair, and he's drawn forward, dragged in hard. Potter's other hand starts at Draco's lower back, then drifts to his arse, and he's shifted forward again. Their hips press against each other, their hard cocks, and Potter groans into Draco's mouth and ruts up against him.

Draco loses track of time after that. His mind is overwhelmed with heat and desire, with the feel of Potter's mouth, Potter's body, Potter's hands, tangled with Draco's own. He's wanted this for so long that finally having it feels like a dream, one he becomes completely subsumed in. They kiss for a long time, until they're both panting, and Potter's pressed hard enough against the tall table that he'll have bruises from its unforgiving edge in the morning. It's not the same as Draco's hands or mouth leaving marks on Potter's skin, but it's still from him, because of him, and Draco will claim them as his own when he remembers this moment later.

Draco feels like a starving man given food, or a dying man given water, like Potter's mouth is his sustenance. The desire burning through him eases, hunger fed, thirst slaked. He lets his hands tease at the hem of Potter's shirt, pulling it up so that his fingertips brush against muscled flesh. But as his touch gentles, he feels Potter pull away, his mouth finally leaving Draco's after these too-long, too-short minutes.

"Malfoy," he says, and Draco can taste his name on Potter's lips. "What're we doing?"

"Snogging." His voice sounds wrecked, wrenched from his throat. "Stop thinking."

"Why here? Why now?"

"Potter." Draco kisses any more words from Potter's mouth, falling back into that blessed heat. But Potter pulls away after a moment, the hand at Draco's throat becoming a threat rather than a promise.

"Stop."

"Don't you like it?" Draco grinds down, feels Potter's hardness against his own. "Your body certainly does."

"I didn't say"—Potter groans as Draco rolls his hips one more time—"Fuck. I like it, you prat. But—"

"But nothing," Draco interrupts. "Why stop if it feels good?"

"Because we're in the middle of a bloody bar, and Ron's going to be here any moment."

Of course Weasley would ruin Draco's one and only chance for this. Regret hits him heavy and low in his gut, but he pulls his hands away, takes a step back.

Potter's fist in his shirt stops him short.

"You live in London, yeah? You're on the Floo Network?" Potter asks, eyes locked on Draco's lips. Draco can't speak, just nods. "I'll call you. After."

"You want more."

Potter darts forward, his kiss finally the way that Draco imagined it always would be, then steps back. "I do."

* * *

Draco finds his way home in a bit of a haze, like the smoke of the bar has followed him in a low-hanging cloud that he can't shake, even in the biting London night air. His flat, a small but modern thing not too far from the Ministry and his offices there, is dark and quiet when he gets home, and though he could switch the lights on or cast a _Lumos_ , he doesn't want to see, doesn't want to run the risk of forgetting the heat in Potter's eyes when he said he wanted more.

Coat thrown over the arm of his sofa, polished Oxfords slipped off without a care for preserving their sheen, Draco slowly sheds his clothing as he makes his way to his bedroom. He smells like sweat and liquor and cigarette smoke, but underneath the stink of the bar is Potter's skin and cologne, and Draco falls into his bed, hard and aching, desperately searching for the hints that remain. He wraps a hand around his cock, runs the fingers of the other across his lips. He's done this before, gone home and fantasised about the way Potter's mouth and skin would taste, the sounds he'd make in pleasure, how Draco would draw them from his body like a virtuoso playing a sonata. But tonight, he knows the physical sensation of those things, and it makes the ache in his gut, in his chest, all the sweeter. As he comes, two fingers pressed against his tongue, the flavor of the sweat from between Potter's fingers still lingering there, he knows he'll do everything in his power to know them all better.

* * *

Potter doesn't call for three days. Draco expected it to take him some time to come to terms with what happened between the two of the. Once he sobered up, Potter was sure to have regrets, though Draco hoped they wouldn't be so great that he'd not call. But as Saturday turned to Sunday to Monday, Draco felt the familiar twist in his gut— the one that always came to life when he thought of Potter—and got head-splittingly drunk. 

When Potter Floos the next evening, Draco's still nursing his hangover. Since he'd called in sick that morning, he's still wearing his pyjamas, slippers, and an oversized bathrobe. Draco's never considered it his most flattering outfit, but when Potter gives Draco a long, slow look from the shifting green flames, Draco thinks he might have misjudged.

"Can I come through?" His voice is rough, and then Draco knows he has.

"Yes." Draco makes space for Potter on the hearth. When he steps from the green flames, he smells like warm skin and smoke, and Draco's hands itch to touch. "Welcome."

It's immediately awkward. They're standing too close together, and the heat from the fire and Potter's body are quickly making Draco overly warm. Potter's wearing his Auror's robes, and the red of them draws out the red of his lips. He bites at them as Draco stares, his bright white incisor denting the plump flesh. Draco knows the texture of it and the taste, and though it's the last thing he wants to do, he takes a step back.

"Can I get you something to drink?" He gestures towards the kitchen. "Or something to eat?"

"What are we doing?" Potter asks.

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question."

"Friday. What happened at the bar." He swallows. "You said… I want..."

"Normally, I'd say something here insulting your ability to form a sentence, but since that would be specifically against my self-interest, I'm going to remain silent."

"Your restraint is astounding."

"So many syllables. I'm impressed." Draco grins, quick and wicked. "Drink?"

"Godric, yes."

Draco goes into the kitchen and returns with two tumblers of whiskey, his with ice, Potter's neat. The man is seated on Draco's couch, shoulders hunched with his head in his hands. Draco's gut twists, and as he settles on the couch, glass outstretched towards Potter, he thinks of the taste of the man's mouth, the memory of it already fading.

"Thanks." Potter takes a sip, then cradles the glass in his hands.

"So, you regret it, then."

"No." Potter grimaces. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it, actually."

"Ah, well then. That's surprising."

"Yeah, you're telling me _._ " Potter takes another sip. "So, what're we doing?"

"What do you _want_ to do?"

"Everything."

Draco closes his eyes as desire floods his body. "You certainly don't hold back, do you?"

"Malfoy." When he opens his eyes, Potter is looking at him with such heat, Draco feels it like the firewhiskey's burn. "None of this makes sense, but…" His hand is warm on Draco's thigh. "Tell me what you want."

Draco sets his whiskey on the low table in front of the couch and moves closer to Potter. His hand tightens on Draco's leg. Draco mirrors Potter, setting his hand on Potter's right thigh before leaning in.

He must have been drinking something other than whiskey at the bar, because Potter's mouth doesn't taste the same as it had then. It's still warm and pliant beneath Draco's, open and wanting, but the tang from before is mellower, easier though no less of a burn. His moans taste the same, too, and Draco drinks them down gratefully, letting them mix with his own sounds of need and desire. Potter's glass lands heavily on the floor, and then Draco's climbing into his lap, Potter's hard, hot hands wrapped around Draco's waist and pulling him closer. There'll be a stain on the antique rug spread out before the couch, but Draco doesn't care, too distracted by the feel of Potter's body between his thighs and Potter's curses against his tongue.

There's no Weasley to interrupt them this time, and Draco thrills as Potter's clothing comes off, layer by layer, beneath his questing hands. First the red robes, awkwardly pinned beneath both of them. Potter lifts his hips in a wicked undulation that has Draco gritting his teeth at the pleasure of it before they both fight the cloth from Potter's body. Then his shirt, its cuffs held together with delicate silver links that seem too posh for the man wearing them. Under that, only the hard planes of muscle that make up Potter's body, and the sweat that Draco is drawing to the surface of Potter's skin.

When Draco reaches for Potter's belt, the buckle shockingly cold against his too-hot hands, Potter grabs his wrists, stopping him.

"What," he pants, "are you doing?"

Draco trails his lips up the line of Potter's neck, stopping at the shell of his ear. "Helping you."

"I don't… Fuck, I can't think." Potter takes another heavy, shuddering breath. "I haven't…"

Draco pulls back, a little surprised. "You've never had a blow job? I thought you and the Weasley girl were engaged at some point."

"Fuck, Malfoy." Potter drags him back down to kiss him furiously, and it takes a few minutes for Draco to refocus.

"Wait, Harry"—they both still a little at his first name, but Draco pushes on—"what have you done before?"

Potter groans, throwing his head back to rest on the top of the couch. His hair is a disaster, ruined by Draco's hands the same way that Potter's skin has been ruined by Draco's mouth. There are bruises and bites scattered across his shoulders and neck, and Draco hasn't decided if he's going to tell Potter about them by the time the man starts speaking.

"Ginny wanted to wait until marriage," he says, face flushed from embarrassment instead of arousal. "We never… It got… Anyway, we broke up before anything…"

Draco cradles Potter's jaw in his hand, the touch tender and causing a blossom of pain to erupt in Draco's chest. He rests his thumb at the corner of Potter's kiss-reddened lips, then runs it over the softness of his cheek.

"You know how to kiss," he says before darting in to press a quick, soft thing to Potter's lips. "And you know where to put your hands."

Potter pulls Draco's hand away from his face and starts shifting as if he wants Draco to move. "I don't need you mocking me, Malfoy."

"I'm not." Draco takes his hand back, stung. "I'm trying to understand what you're familiar with. I don't want you running out of here because I put my tongue in your arse and you've never entertained the thought."

Potter's eyes slam shut, teeth gritted as his hips give an involuntary jerk beneath Draco's body. "Your goddamned _mouth_."

"Which I am happy to put to other uses than talking." Carefully, Draco places both of his hands on the sides of Potter's neck, fingers forcing his head forward so that when he finally opens his green eyes, he's staring straight at Draco. "I want to make you feel good, Potter. It turns me on. But if you don't tell me what you want, we're both going to be very disappointed, and I don't generally let people leave my bed unsatisfied."

"So, you've had others."

"I've had a few. The number is unimportant."

"But you know what you're doing."

"Yes, I have an idea of what happens between two consenting adults. And if you'd tell me what you want, I'd have a better one."

"You…" Potter swallows, and Draco feels it beneath his palms. "What you said before."

"A blow job. You want me to suck you off."

"Yes." His eyes fall to Draco's mouth. "Please."

"Was that so hard?"

"Can you shut up already?"

Draco's laughing when he kisses Potter, but it quickly turns into a moan when Potter's fingers burrow into his hair, pulling at the strands hard enough to sting. The pain races through him with the pleasure, and it all sinks into that twisted part of his gut that belongs to Potter and Potter alone.

It's a struggle to pull away—not just because Draco wants to stay lost in the ecstasy of Potter's mouth and body beneath his, but because of Potter's hands holding Draco in place—but he finally manages to draw back, trailing his lips down Potter's neck to his collarbone. He nips at the ridge there, then follows the gently curved line of it down to the hollow of Potter's throat, then through the valley between his pectorals to the ridges of his abdominal muscles, to the divot of Potter's belly button.

He pauses at Potter's belt buckle, his breath fogging on the shining metal. Potter pushes Draco's hair from his face, fingers shaking. It's enough of an assent for Draco, and he undoes the clasp easily, hands steady and confident. The sound of leather through metal makes him shiver, but then his attention is drawn back as he opens the fly of Potter's trousers and finds his cock, flushed head pushed through the opening of his pants.

"Look at you," Draco says breathlessly. His thumb traces the ridge under the head, then slides down to push Potter's foreskin further back. The heavy vein running up the underside calls to him, and he presses the flat of his tongue there, eyes closing at the heady taste of Potter's skin and musk.

"Oh, God." Potter's hand rests on the side of Draco's head. Not commanding, not pushing or pulling him away, just resting there as if to grant Draco permission to move forward, to know that Potter is there with him, both of them wanting whatever comes next.

Draco trails his tongue up to the tip of Potter's cock, then pulls the head into his mouth. Precome is a sweet tang against his tongue, and he slides further down the length, smiling around Potter's girth when his dick jerks in Draco's mouth. The hand on his head slides to the back, urging Draco forward.

He relaxes the back of his throat and swallows Potter down. Eyes closed, he loses himself to the rhythm of it, the back and forth, the glide of lips and tongue. At some point, Potter shimmies his trousers and pants further down his legs, and Draco takes the opportunity to nose and mouth at Potter's balls, bringing first one, then the other into his mouth, leaving Potter cursing and his cock dripping against his stomach.

Draco learns what touches Potter likes, catalogues them away for later use. The underside of his head is especially sensitive, and when Draco focuses there, pressing the tip of his tongue up against the ridge, sucking just the tip into his mouth in a quick in-and-out, it makes Potter's muscles tense and shake beneath Draco's hands.

"Malfoy." Potter's hand clenches in Draco's hair. "I'm going to…"

Draco takes Potter's cock back into his mouth, cups Potter's balls tight in his hand. He stretches a finger out, teasing at Potter's perineum and the pucker of his hole. Potter bows off of the couch at the touch, his cock thrust deep into the back of Draco's throat as he starts to come. Draco nearly chokes on it, but pulls back enough to avoid disaster, swallowing as Potter shivers and shakes apart. When his body falls back to the couch, his hand is gentle as it slowly brushes through Draco's hair. The tenderness of it makes him ache.

Kneeling between Potter's spread legs, the man's face flushed with orgasm and his eyes drooping and trained on Draco, he suddenly feels uncertain. Potter had said what he wanted, but Draco hadn't thought to ask about reciprocity. His cock is hard and aching, a clear line in the soft cotton of his pyjama bottoms. He knows that Potter can see it, catches the flicker of his eyes as they dart below Draco's waist to rest on the straining fabric.

"What…" Potter licks his lips. "What do I do? To make you… How do I do it?"

Draco shivers, already on the edge of ruin. He rises to his feet and climbs back into Potter's lap. "You know how to pull yourself off, yes?" At Potter's jerking nod, Draco reaches for his hand. "It's pretty much the same when it's another bloke."

Potter's hands are a thing of beauty. There's a callus along the side of Potter's right pointer finger from his wand, and as Draco uncurls Potter's fingers, he lets his own run across the thickened patch of skin. Draco leans in and takes that roughened finger into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around the digit. Potter gasps but he doesn't pull away, and Draco works Potter's finger like it's his cock. When Draco draws it from his mouth, he presses a kiss to the center of Potter's palm, then licks a wet stripe from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger. It takes a few passes to get it wet, but by the time saliva is dripping down his palm and over his wrist, Potter's other hand is reaching for Draco's waistband, and neither of them can think about the painful intimacy of mouth to hand.

"C'mon, Potter," Draco says as he lifts his hips from the constraining elastic of his waistband. He's consumed with urgency and the painful need for Potter's hand on his cock.

There's no hesitancy to Potter's touch, and when his spit-slicked hand wraps around Draco's prick, Draco's eyes slam shut. They don't stay that way long, though, and Draco watches Potter start wanking him with slow, confident strokes that will be emblazoned in Draco's memory for the rest of his life.

The head of his prick disappears into the welcome torment of Potter's curled fingers, then appears again as Potter draws his hand down. When his fingers brush over the head of Draco's cock, Draco hisses and can't prevent his hips from thrusting forward.

"Like that, huh?" Potter asks as he tightens his grip. Draco can only groan, and Potter's grin is all animalistic pride. He spits on Draco's cock, easing the way for the next tortuous slide of his hand. It's too dry and too tight and too perfect, and Draco takes Potter's mouth as if it might hold back the orgasm quickly growing in his blood. He threads his fingers through Potter's hair and holds on, and as he moans into the greedy warmth of Potter's mouth, he desperately, futilely, tries not to fall.

As if he hasn't been for months, for years.

Potter's lips retreat enough for words. "Give it to me, let me see…"

It's too much, and Draco breaks apart, shattered into a thousand pieces and put together by the gentle pull of Potter's hand. He kisses the curses from Draco's mouth as he comes, and when Potter's hand finally stills, it's warm and wet with Draco's come.

"Jesus, Malfoy," he says with a bit of a laugh. He holds his hand up between them, stares at the come coating his fingers. "Christ. How long has it been?"

"Rude of you to ask."

Potter laughs again, then tentatively brings his hand to his mouth. His tongue is a flash of red when it darts out to lick at the mess coating his skin, and his mouth turns down at the bitter tang. "I thought it'd taste better than that."

Draco tries to get up, but falls to the side on the couch in an ungraceful, boneless sprawl. "It can, given proper warning."

Potter makes a considering noise, then slides a finger into his mouth. After sucking it clean, he shrugs. "I could get used to it, I guess."

"You could…" Draco closes his eyes and feels his dick twitch. "You're unbearable."

Potter laughs again, then asks, "What's next?"

Draco grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Tacky! You are a joy and an inspiration, and I hope you like this little thing I put together to celebrate. I'm so happy we've become friends this year, and I hope you have only joy in the next twelve months. ❤❤❤


End file.
